


A More Intimate Celebration

by yet_intrepid



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Making Out, Teasing, Twelve Days of Fic-mas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: “Éowyn,” Faramir reminds her, “it laces—”
It’s too late. She is already stuck in the dress, squeaking indignantly as she tries to wrestle her way back out. Faramir cannot help laughing.
“Does Rohan now call for aid?” he asks. “For it seems her situation is dire.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nimueailinen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimueailinen/gifts).



> For a prompt from Julia earendils: "GONDOR CALLS FOR AID."

“It is long since I had much mirth at Yule,” Faramir confesses, as he turns to Éowyn’s wardrobe to examine dresses as she requested. “I never cared much for the formal festivities.”

“Nor I,” Éowyn says. He looks over his shoulder at her, standing there in her thin chemise, and blushes. They have been married for months now, yet he can hardly believe it—that every morning he wakes with her hair tangled against his shoulder, that they dine together, that they love one another and take their pleasure anytime they wish it.

She sees his blush and flashes a roguish grin. “I do not think I will like them more in Minas Tirith than in Edoras,” she says. “Or at least, not so much as I would like a more intimate celebration.”

Faramir sputters. “Well,” he manages, after a moment, “we can certainly arrange that afterwards.” He drags his eyes away from her form, just visible under the white folds of fabric, to meet her eyes, which proves no less distracting, and holds out two of her court gowns. “Come, my lady, what will you wear?”

She shrugs and selects one without much thought, starting to pull it over her head.

“Éowyn,” Faramir reminds her, “it laces—”

It’s too late. She is already stuck in the dress, squeaking indignantly as she tries to wrestle her way back out. Faramir cannot help laughing.

“Does Rohan now call for aid?” he asks. “For it seems her situation is dire.”

Éowyn says something, muffled both by laughter and by the dress that covers her head.

“Hold still,” Faramir says. “I’ll undo the lacing.”

He tries, but it’s harder than he thought—partly because of the way the dress is wrapped awkwardly around Éowyn’s arms and head, but not only that. Just standing so close to her tugs at his thoughts, tempts his hands. When he finally loosens the cords enough for Éowyn to wiggle out and toss the dress across the room, he is blushing again.

“You know there will be dancing tonight,” she tells him, looking down at the chemise that’s gotten itself caught up above her knees. “How will you manage?”

“My dancing is adequate, I think,” Faramir says, stubbornly refusing to play into her insinuations. “You have praised it before.”

She moves up against him then, without bothering to fix her chemise, and his hands go to her waist. “I do not doubt that you can dance,” she says, still laughing. “I doubt merely the power of your restraint.”

“I am well known for my restraint,” Faramir says, even as his left hand moves upwards over her ribs. “Gondor itself is well known for restraint.”

“And yet,” Éowyn murmurs. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Faramir admits, allowing himself a hint of a smile, “Gondor may well call for aid before the night is over.”

She leans up, kisses his jaw. He lets himself revel for a moment, closing his eyes—her body is soft against his, her hands cool on the back of his neck. But then she goes still, and when he looks at her again her face has fallen.

“Will they not think us indecent?” she asks. “Your people, who are so proud.”

“I have no doubt they already think us indecent,” Faramir tells her gently. “Some of them, at the least—the old lords, the dowagers. But they also think you charming, and they will not soon forget that you are a hero in battle. And if they do not like how you behave in court, well, they may bring their complaints to me, for I will defend your honor to the death.”

“I can defend my own honor,” Éowyn protests, her smile returning as she leans her head against his chest.

“I know,” says Faramir. Oh, how he knows. “But you need not, if you do not wish. And besides, we can certainly do no worse than the king and queen. Half the city knows that they were found in the act behind a booth in the market last week, and they are not loved the less for it.”

“Behind a booth in the market?” Éowyn’s eyes twinkle. “That is not so ill a plan.”

Faramir sighs. “Your love of scandalizing me is boundless.”

“It was you who married a wild shieldmaiden,” she reminds him. “Would you have your proud folk say of you—”

“I would,” he tells her, without hesitation, and presses his lips to hers. 


End file.
